


Wonderland

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, Black Cards
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-04
Updated: 2011-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:04:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	Wonderland

Bebe comes offstage and she's spinning, her head full of lights and feedback, her throat rough and her stomach sore from backbend and breath support at once. It's so fucking great she wants to yell, she wants to sing about it, she wants to go back out there on the stage and kill it again.

But the handlers are steering her back to the dressing room, which sucks because no more fun but is cool because there's more vodka back there, a whole bottle of it that gets replaced any time it starts getting low. It's like magic. It _is_ magic, and she's the fairy princess now, it's all for her.

She spins for real, rising up on her toes and throwing her arms out, then catching herself on the wall hard as she stumbles forward. "Whoops!"

There's soft, low laughter behind her, and she looks over her shoulder, her hair falling over her eye. Pete's standing there, drink already in hand, looking at her with that new grin of his, all wide and easy and...lit-up, somehow, when he aims it at her.

"You're drunk, kiddo," he says, taking a sip.

"So're you," she counters, regaining her balance and turning to face him, leaning back against the wall. "So's Spencer. So's everybody. So what?"

"Nothing. I'm just saying. You're drunk."

She shrugs and goes over to the vodka bottle, sitting there all neat with its tray of glasses and mixers. "I'm allowed to be."

"No argument." He's watching her, she can feel it even with her back to him, and it makes her feel like she's glowing. It makes her want to preen, to arch her back like a cat, give him something to look at. That's fucked-up, probably.

It wasn't like this at first; not for a long time, actually. She thought "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Fame" was a lie, because all she ever saw was goofy, sweet, sleepy-eyed Pete who was dabbling in a vanity project because he was bored, treated her like an exceptionally well-behaved pet, and was almost definitely going to drop the whole thing before they ever made an album, but would give her a hell of a good list of contacts on her way out the door.

A few months ago something changed. He came into the studio one day and he was different, this was different, it wasn't a game anymore. They were going to _do_ this. Like professionals. Like, for _real_.

It's a total rush and she can't get enough of it.

And now he watches her like that, when she's performing, when she's on. Like he's looking for something under her skin, like he wants to see _all_ of her. If this is Mr. Fame, she likes him a lot.

"You want another one?" she asks, looking back at him again. He's swirling the ice in the bottom of his empty cup, making a raspy sound that grates on her nerves.

"Sure." He pushes off the wall and crosses over toward her, the way he does on stage now--hot and confident and something else, a word she can't quite find when she goes digging through her head for it. Like a big cat, too.

"What's your preference?" she asks once she's poured vodka into two of the cups. She taps each of the bottles of mixer in turn, raising her eyebrows, then frowning when his smile broadens into a smirk.

"Straight-up. Thanks."

"Are you showing off?"

"Nope."

"You think I can't take it straight too?" He just shrugs, still tracking her every move, and suddenly the word clicks into place. _Predatory_.

But it's not scary. It's awesome. She wants to hunt him right back. Learn how to be that way, to carry that charge under her skin.

She picks up both glasses and holds his out, watching his face when their fingers brush. He doesn't react, not enough, not as much as she wants him to, so she takes a drink and steps in closer while she waits for the burn to fade.

"What's up, little B?" he asks, still smirking, not giving an inch. "You okay?"

"How do you do it?"

"What?"

She waits for him to take a drink and then reaches out, tracing his lower lip, catching a drop that escapes. "Play it cool."

He watches her suck the vodka off her finger and _still_ doesn't respond. "Practice."

"Could you teach me?"

"What do you think I've been doing?"

"I'm your project?"

"My Eliza Doolittle." He takes another drink and exhales roughly, clicking his tongue against his teeth. "Or the other thing."

"Pygmalion."

"Sure."

"I don't think I like that."

He laughs, actually fucking _laughs_ , and that's it, that's the last straw. She steps into his space, right up into him like she does sometimes on stage, but there's no mic between them, no crowd watching, no Spencer or Nate to anchor them both back on their heels. She just moves right into his face and she slaps him. "Don't laugh at me."

He catches her wrist loosely, holding her hand there just in front of his face. "Careful."

"Or what? You'll teach me something else?"

His breath hitches and he lets go, wiping his hand on his t-shirt and downing the rest of his drink. "Bebe..."

"Shut up, Pete." She pushes him back hard, once and then again, until his shoulders hit the wall. He drops his glass and she feels the vodka splash cold against her bare legs and run down inside her boots.

She fits against him well. Better than she expected. He's warm and solid and his leg slides between hers easily, his thigh pressing right up against her. He doesn't move at first, so she lets herself rub slowly against him, her breath huffing warm against his neck.

"This is a bad idea," he says, and she covers his mouth with her hand, pressing his head back to the wall.

"I'm not Eliza Doolittle."

He looks at her for a minute, meets her eyes like he really _sees_ her, like he's found what he's looking for under the skin. His tongue slides across her palm and she pulls it away, letting him draw a breath to speak.

"No," he says finally, his hands coming down to catch her hips. He turns them both, settling her against the wall. "You're a star."

He goes down to his knees and for a minute she can't react at all, she can't even think, because of all the things she thought might happen, this never made the list, nothing like this. He slides his hands up her thighs, catching the edge of her skirt and pushing it up over her hips, shooting a look up at her through his lashes until she catches the hem and holds it there. He hooks his thumbs in the band of her underwear and guides it down, letting it fall past her knees.

His mouth is hot, sliding up the inside of her thigh, tracing patterns on her skin with lips and tongue. His teeth, too, a little bit, scraping just enough to make her gasp. Her hands are flat against the wall, nails scratching a little when he does something that jumps along her nerves and makes heat spike in her belly.

He looks up at her, a quick glance before his hands settle on her thighs and he opens her up, thumbs sliding over delicate skin to spread the slickness from inside her upward to meet his tongue. He doesn't say anything, doesn't tease, just meets her eyes and then closes his and starts in.

She closes her eyes, too, letting her head thump back against the wall, feeling her hair rub and snarl against the paint. His left hand slides down from the top of her thigh to the inside, then under, guiding it up and over his shoulder so he can press closer in, get more of her under his mouth, get his tongue deeper inside her. He's making sounds, not just the wet slip of skin and skin but little moans like this is something he can't get enough of.

She's so fucking turned on from performing that even if he wasn't this into it she would probably come in no time. She was practically crawling out of her skin just from rubbing up on him. But this, the intensity of it, the way he's pressing his whole face against her, sucking at her clit and working his tongue against all of her, tasting her from the inside out, and his fingers rubbing up against her lips and sliding fleeting teasing pressure against her--it's all too fucking much and she grabs the back of his head, digging her nails hard against his skull and holding him tightly in place while her orgasm rocks through her in fast-pulsing circles.

He doesn't stop; he makes another sound against her, a growl mixed with a moan, and then his tongue is working her again and his fingers are sliding inside her, two of them curving in to find just the right spot. They slide over it again and again in the same fast, relentless rhythm as his tongue and she isn't ready yet, her thighs are still shaking, but she comes again anyway and then knees him in the jaw.

He rocks back on his heels, hand coming up to press against his jaw and then wipe across his mouth. "You can also just say stop."

She blinks at him, breathing too hard to answer, her dress still hiked up to her waist, her panties on the floor, her thighs wet, her hair all a mess. She's lucky she's still standing up and he's talking about being able to give instructions.

He gets to his feet, rubbing his palms on his jeans, and she can see that he's hard, dick pressing tight against the zipper. He slides one hand across it almost absently, pressing it down a little and then ignoring it again as he moves in close to her. He puts his hands flat against the wall on either side of her head and leans in, breathing softly against her mouth. It's not a kiss, quite, but she can smell and taste herself all over him and it makes her shiver again.

"Welcome to the party, little B," he whispers. "Keep your hands and feet inside the moving vehicle and your eyes on the prize."  



End file.
